


The Levine Cross

by sunflowerseed



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseed/pseuds/sunflowerseed
Summary: He excuses himself to the washroom and when he returns his seat is occupied by one of the many white men in black suits. The bloke is leaning in close to Arthur’s mother conspiratorially. His eyes are heavy-lidded and his mouth is slung wide. Arthur imagines him in fatigues embracing two small blonde children with a doting wife looking on. He stops and contemplates leaving them to it but the man must sense a looming presence because he glances toward him.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 97
Collections: Distant faves





	The Levine Cross

Arthur storms out of Heathrow international arrivals and nearly topples the bloke holding up a piece of loose leaf with his name on. He’s short and thick around the middle, wearing a navy peacoat and a pristine chauffeur’s hat. He’s accompanied by a taller and broader man in a polished dress uniform. The driver looks hesitantly at Arthur, the sign drawn in close to his chest. ‘ Mr. Levine?’

‘ Yes, that’s me.’ He huffs and glances at the soldier watching silently. ‘ Hi.’ 

He smiles and his ginger beard catches on his lip. ‘ Major-general George Watson. Nice to meet you.’ He holds out his hand.

‘ You too. Sorry, I’m late. My dad would be mortified.’

George shrugs. ‘ He’d understand I think. Here, let me take that.’

Arthur lets him shoulder his duffel bag and his gaze shifts back to the driver. ‘ I didn’t get your name.’

‘ Wallace.’ He removes his cap revealing a modest pink mohawk. ‘ Now, are we ready?’

* * *

He only has enough time to drop his luggage off and rip his suit out of its garment bag. He applies an extra layer of deodorant and sprays himself with cologne to mask the 7-hour flight. By the time he’s ushered into the hall his hair is already falling loose from the sloppy pomade job he’d managed. 

Finally, he’s faced with a ballroom full of white men in black suits. Additionally, there are wives in modest gowns that sweep the floor and a smattering of dress uniforms among them. His mother’s arm is hooked around his and his sibling's looming presence at his back are welcome familiarities. He hunches down slightly to speak into the microphone and it’s a wonder he isn’t out of breath in this whirlwind.

He’s the youngest and yet he’s the spokesperson for their family, has been since the whole mess of Libya and the phone call he’d received from his mum in the midst of celebrating his thesis presentation. It makes sense, he’s the most practiced at speaking in public. His voice is even. His tone is decisive and assured. ‘ — and so it’s my pleasure to present Lieutenant-Colonel David Leakey with the Levine Cross in memoriam of my father.’

David steps forward, smiling nervously and nods at Arthur. Arthur returns the gesture and reaches out to pin the cross to his lapel. ‘ Congratulations.’ He says shaking his hand. ‘ Thank you for your service.’

‘ Christ.’ David says through his obscene happiness. ‘ Thanks, mate.’

The banquet that follows is quaint and dimly lit. It feels as if Arthur and his family shake every hand in the room. By the time the wait staff are taking away their plates, Arthur is exhausted from the mental and physical exertion of having just flown halfway across the world and spent an entire day laying on the charisma. 

He excuses himself to the washroom and when he returns his seat is occupied by one of the many white men in black suits. The bloke is leaning in close to Arthur’s mother conspiratorially. His eyes are heavy-lidded and his mouth is slung wide. Arthur imagines him in fatigues embracing two small blonde children with a doting wife looking on. He stops and contemplates leaving them to it but the man must sense a looming presence because he glances toward him. 

‘ Oi!’ He stands and he’s taller than he looks sat down. ‘ I’ve taken your seat, haven’t I?’

Arthur takes note of the quality of his accent. It’s overtly polished and very much in line with those in government attendance. He reaches out a hand. ‘ Eames, or Charles I suppose. Old habits die hard.’

A soldier then, Arthur thinks taking his hand, and a chatty one at that.

‘ I was just telling your mum. Your speech was brilliant.’

‘ Thank you.’ Arthur says resisting the urge to step closer for a better look at him. ‘ It’s always an honour to be here. Sorry, I didn’t catch- do you serve?’

Eames tilts his head side to side as if he’s having trouble making up his mind. ‘ Used to-’ He finally decides. ‘ -in the RAF. Mostly just pushing papers, now. And what do you do, Arthur Levine? Something smart, I imagine.’

Arthur tucks his hands away in his pockets suddenly hyper-aware of them hanging limp at his sides. ‘ I’m doing my PhD in cognitive science and artificial intelligence.’

‘ Naturally.’ Eames licks his lips and catches sight of something over Arthur’s shoulder — and there’s already a strike of something that Arthur chooses to ignore — but he refocuses his attention quickly. ‘ Now, do tell. How long ‘till I never need to lift another finger and a robot does all of my washing?’

‘ Oh, for a price Mr. Eames you can have whatever you want.’

Arthur’s mother gawks.

It’s much later in the evening when Arthur reaches his wit’s end and finally succumbs to his craving for a cigarette. He sneaks out between conversations and takes the front steps by two, his full pack of lucky strikes open and waiting in his palm, but he falters when he spots Eames tucked away by the entrance, a tiny stream of smoke billowing from his fingertips. 

‘ Hey.’ He calls, walking as flippantly as he can manage in his direction.

Eames tilts his head toward him and smiles. ‘ Hello again.’ 

Arthur puffs out his cheeks with smoke and resists the urge to stare.

‘ I hope this isn’t presumptuous-‘ Eames says glancing at Arthur and nothing on his face could be read as uncertain. ‘ - but how long are you in London?’

Arthur is pleasantly surprised but he can’t help the disappointed sigh that escapes him. ‘ My flight’s tomorrow morning, unfortunately. I have a conference I can’t get out of.’

The silence stretches between them like an empty field. ‘ That’s a shame.’ Eames says finally, crossing his ankles.

They exchange numbers anyway and Arthur turns up to Eames’ townhome in East London at 1 in the morning; his broken glasses digging into the bridge of his nose, his three-piece suit and dress shoes replaced with an MIT hoodie and his old battered reeboks. 

He leads Arthur to the bar where there is a hand-painted dreidel resting delicately on a cocktail napkin. ‘ Now, what is it you’d like to drink?’

As it turns out, Eames is one of two sons and a daughter born to a Lady — due to inherit a hundred thousand acres of land in Buckinghamshire and a priceless art collection — and the secretary of defence. He spent his summers sailing with his grandad off the southwestern tip of Cornwall and tending to his grandma’s horses in Wales. 

It’s pure lunacy because Arthur attended an inner-city school with metal detectors and shared a bedroom with his older brother until he was 13 when his family moved into a brownstone in Crown Heights and Arthur finally got his own bedroom (of which, he could quite nearly touch all four walls at once). But somehow Eames is equally enthralled by Arthur’s middle-class upbringing. 

They toil the night away like that, tucked into the den bouncing between disparate subjects until it’s three in the morning and they’re both fading. ‘ Another?’ Eames says when Arthur’s glass reaches its bottom again.

Arthur shakes his head and leans forward to place his cup on the coffee table. And like space debris, a comet in an elliptical orbit slowly burning, running the risk of burning up completely until an almost improbable collision, Arthur kisses him and his glasses dig even more sharply into his nose. ‘ Ow.’ He says withdrawing and propping himself up against Eames’ chest. Arthur flings his glasses onto the table and leans back in.

* * *

Arthur rolls onto his side and rubs his fingers down his nose with a soft groan. 

‘ I’m sorry -’ Eames is saying. ‘ - but you’ve a flight haven’t you?’

His whole body stills and his eyes snap open sharply. ‘ What time is it?’

Eames presses his mouth into Arthur’s shoulder. ’ Just after six.’ He touches a finger to one of the freckles along his arm, drags it to another and another.

Arthur allows himself to revel in the warmth of the bed and the person beside him for a moment before willing himself to get up. He rolls to face Eames, threads his arm under his and rubs his face under his chin. ‘ If you’re ever in Hell’s Kitchen-’ He mumbles and promptly falls back to sleep. Eames rouses him again ten minutes later and Arthur tumbles onto the street front with his sweatshirt inside out and his glasses nowhere in sight.

* * *

3 months go by in no time at all and as usual Arthur is consumed by his work. He’s deigned to shower in 4 days and yet he’s attended all three classes he’s assisting on and met with 5 different people for their research, 3 of which he’d never met before. He’s wearing a warm-up jacket from high school with a hole in the armpit and he’s just broken another pair of his glasses on the way to his and Dom’s office. 

He bursts through the door and Dom startles. ‘ Woah!’

‘ You got any tape?’ Arthur says brows furrowed. ‘ I just stepped on my glasses.’

Dom stares at him, processing. ‘ Uh, yeah. I should. You know you really just ought to get a chain for them or something.’ He yanks open his desk drawer.

His phone vibrates against his thigh and Dom tosses a roll of wrapping tape at him.

‘ Really?’ Arthur says giving him a sceptical look before deferring to his phone. ‘ I meant like, electrical tape you’re an engineer don’t you… like… build… stuff.’ He stares at the text. ‘ Oh.’

‘ What?’ Dom sits up. ‘ Wrapping tape will do the job. Here.’ He reaches out and takes Arthur’s glasses. ‘ Who are you texting?’

‘ I’m not- this guy I met in the spring. He’s coming to the city… next week.’

‘ A guy?’ Dom says absently. ’ Where’s he from?’

Arthur glances away from his phone and watches as Dom wraps an obscene amount of tape around the broken joint of his glasses. ‘ London. You fucking suck.’ Arthur says taking his newly immobile glasses.

That night Arthur starts the ball rolling on coming back from the dead. He tidies the bench in his bedroom towering with clothing and soaks his bathroom in bleach. He waxes his encroaching unibrow and has to go to the pharmacy to buy a new electric shaver to tame the hair growing out of control between his legs. He stares resentfully at the zit on his chin for five minutes trying to convince himself not to pop it and goes on a run to distract himself.

‘ What’s on your face?’ Dom says coming into their office on Monday with a paper bag and coffee dribbled down the front of his shirt.

‘ Face mask. ’ He says, mouth practically immobile.

‘ Oh, right.’ Dom is smiling weakly to himself, amused. ‘ Your little friend is coming this week.’

‘ _Little friend. _’ Arthur cuts him an annoyed look. ‘ Those bagels?’__

____

__

‘ Yeah, here.’ Dom opens the bag and tosses Arthur a croissant. ‘ Will I get to meet him?’

‘ Oh, definitely—fucking—not.’

* * *

‘ So what is it that you do?’ Dom says shovelling mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Eames is cutting into his eggplant parmesan and Arthur isn’t surprised by the delicacy of it. He glances at Dom and smiles. Arthur is, however, surprised that he isn’t repulsed by Dom’s in-elegance or at least that he doesn’t show it. 

‘ I work at the ministry of defence. Essentially, I do paperwork from 10 to 2 and hobnob from 3 to 7. It’s incredibly dull.’

Dom hums around a piece of steak. ‘ Huh.’ He coughs into his napkin and Arthur stops himself cringing. ’ How’d you get into that? Like, what’s the path to a career in government defence.’

‘ Well, I did a tour in the air force when I was barely legal. My family was not very pleased with my decision to serve. And my dad works in the ministry so the most logical next step was to go corporate. It isn’t a very hard thing to do when you’ve family in positions of leadership. Nepotism and all that.’

Dom is nodding vigorously and Arthur’s annoyance is mounting. How it happened that he was the third wheel to Dom and Eames is still unbeknownst to him. He could do for another drink so he looks around for the waiter but they're the only people in the room. He could have sworn just a moment ago there were other patrons occupying the empty seats that now surround them.

‘ Wow, that’s-.’ Dom takes an audible gulp of his water. ‘ That’s really interesting. I could never work an office job. Teaching drives me so close to the edge but research is my saving grace.’

‘ Right, your research Arthur was saying-‘ He looks pointedly at Arthur, an obvious attempt at reopening the conversation to him.

‘ It’s boring.’ Arthur says and: ‘ We’re trying to develop AI that can dream.’ Dom says simultaneously.

Eames goes blank and he sets down his fork. ‘ A robot that can dream?’

* * *

Arthur lives in a chilly 750 sq ft apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s nothing to phone home about but Eames nearly does. ‘ You’ve fantastic taste.’ He says tracing his fingers along the top of the armchair Arthur can't even remember where he got. ‘ Very homey. It’s not what I’d expect.’

Arthur pours them a drink. ‘ What did you expect?’ He says placing the Junípero back on top of the fridge. ‘ I mean we hardly know each other.’

Eames sits on Arthur’s bed for a lack of many other options and accepts the gin and tonic being offered to him. ‘ I guess you’re right-’

Arthur strips off his sweater and throws it on the counter. He takes a sip of his drink and grimaces at how strong he made it.

Eames continues. ‘ I have, however, imagined up a whole personality for you since we met. Although, I think Dom has really given me some…significant insight.’

Arthur rolls his eyes. ‘ I can’t believe how hard you were flirting with him.’

Eames blanches. ’ You do realize Dom is… revolting don’t you?’

Arthur laughs. ‘ I’m joking. He’s loyal though.’

‘ I sensed, considering he weaselled his way to dinner tonight and interrogated me for the better half of an hour.’

‘ You wouldn’t believe how hard I tried to ditch him.’

‘ It’s fine. If not for Dom I wouldn’t know that you went to Stanford on a knitting scholarship or that you’re obsessed with dreaming.’

‘ Not obsessed.’

‘ Alright, fascinated.’

Arthur shrugs. ‘ I didn’t know you were planning on quitting your job.’

Eames leans back on his palm and toes off his shoes. ’ I never said that.’

Arthur slips down onto the bed with him and he pulls his leg up so his knee is brushing Eames’ thigh. He leans in. ‘What’ll you do when you leave?’

It’s a simple question but Eames watches him quietly for a moment. ‘ Would you ever move away from New York?’

Arthur makes a face. ‘ Why are you deflecting?’

Eames makes a face back. ‘ I’m not, I just- it’s not all that interesting, is it. I could do nothing at all and have enough money for my children’s children’s children’s children to never work a day of their lives.’ 

‘ That’s not what I asked.’

Eames smiles. ‘ So, New Yorker for life then.’

Arthur pursues his lips. ‘ I don’t know. Maybe I could be convinced otherwise.’

‘ Don’t kid yourself.’

Arthur wonders how it’s happened that this has become the topic of discussion. Eames takes the moment to observe the jumble of a whiteboard propped up on the shelf across from him. Arthur glances at it but it's unintelligible to him. ‘ What do you dream about?’

Eames turns to him with a small smile. ‘ Am I under study?’

Arthur watches him intently for a moment before giving a nonchalant shrug. 

‘ Isn’t all that hogwash anyway. Dreams are arbitrary aren’t they?’

‘ There’s no scientific consensus.’

‘ Well, what do you think?’

Arthur sets his glass on the floor and lies back on the duvet with a forlorn sign. ‘ I don’t know. I once had a dream I was flying over the Indian Ocean but it was filled with cream soda-’ He smiles at the ceiling. ‘ - and I love cream soda.’

‘ Cream soda? What a poor choice on your brains part-‘ Eames leans over to give him a sceptical look and Arthur props himself up on his elbows to return a look of disdain.

‘ Are you kidding? It’s probably your crappy British cream soda that-‘

Eames doesn’t hesitate to lean in for a lazy kiss and Arthur reciprocates easily. He entertains a curious thought that materializes about the edges of his mind as Eames strays toward his ear and back again. He holds out and waits for Eames to press him to the mattress but when he does his feet fly out from under him and he startles awake. 

The first thing he feels is the cannula burning in his vein and the second is loss. He’s never experienced a dream like that. Like real life, with a clear timeline and even clearer emotions. He had felt it in his bones, hadn’t even doubted it for a second.

‘ Arthur?’ A voice says and his attention is drawn to the soft pressure on his other arm. It’s a hand holding onto his own and Arthur turns his head. 

Eames looks the same, soft eyes and mouth. The relief is overwhelming and he closes his eyes to stop himself crying but an errant tear slips down his cheek. ‘ Darling?’ He squeezes his hand and Arthur wants to reciprocate the gesture but he needs to remain still a moment longer or he doesn't know what will happen. When he does open his eyes Eames is holding his hand to his mouth. 

‘ I don’t-’ Arthur starts but his voice is hoarse.

‘ You don’t remember?’ 

Arthur shakes his head and Eames nods. ‘ That’s okay. Yusuf said, um-‘ Eames is flustered. Arthur can tell by the long pauses and the shifting of his eyes. But he hadn’t known that in the dream had he? ‘ -he said that’s normal and it's only short term. You’ve been having difficulty sleeping… well for years now and Yusuf concocted a new treatment. ‘Said it restored REM sleep up to 90% something or other-‘ He can only feel Yusuf’s name nudging at the periphery of his mind but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him. ‘ We put you under for an hour test.’

' An hour.' He mumbles and it comes back to him slowly, then all at once. 

He blinks and Eames is there beside him. But it's the Eames who he’d scouted for a job in an Egyptian hookah bar a decade ago, not the Eames he’d met in London. The Eames who, on that first job had wound Arthur up with his words but had hoisted him through a window so gently in their haste to evacuate the job site that Arthur had wondered if maybe, just maybe, he _was _actually being sincere. Eames who kissed Arthur over paperwork in Ko Samui on the anniversary of his dad's death and who'd waited 4 months to kiss him again in Alaska in the blistering cold while trying to stop his teeth chattering. Eames who loves him like mad.__

____

____

He squeezes this Eames' hand.


End file.
